The Little Painter
by Ocean of My Existence
Summary: Semi AU! Where Nezumi looses his memory and has been fantasizing about the little paint shop that he sees ever day on his way to work. One-shot. Nezushi


Paintings.

Nezumi had never learned to understand both the meaning and the point of the giant off-white sheets splattered with intricate little colors, patterns, and shapes. Never had he once questioned them though; the West Block wasn't a place for asking questions–so he simply watched them from afar. He learned to savor and relish the small slivers of time he had while walking on his way to work where a tiny little shop stood on the corner of the street. They sold different kinds of paints and color tones, and every other day or so they would always put up a new illustration for people to see as they walked past.

It was a form of advertisement Nezumi had never thought to question or ask about, and he knew that if he tried inquiring about it then the owner would most surely take it down. To put it bluntly, the people of the West Block who had what little of importance to offer didn't like exploiting their positions to much if they thought someone would be out ot get them for it.

On walk to work most days, he was always fond of being able to try and conjure up complex images of what the paint shop would come up next since constantly keeping his guard up and keeping his head down grew tiring after a while despite how necessary it would be at times. The blue-haired criminal would continuously attempt to produce the most elaborate visions, since the paint shop always strived to beat even the most esteemed artists with their excellent grace. Surpassing even the gray-eyed actors ability–and therefor putting him in complete awe of being able to portray what would transcend his mind when he had enough time to think of something.

The designers seemed to be capable of making the things Nezumi would see every day, such as a broken glass on the side of the road, or a dusty old cloak–and turning it into one of the most beautiful things ever to come onto a canvas.

He was truly in outmost wonderment.

He would have thought the paintings to be a dream summoned up by his subconscious, that they had been made by angels instead of the demons called human beings, but then Nezumi discovered that in fact the paintings _were_ created by angels. Or angel–simply as one heavenly being.

He had first spotted the boy on accident really, he had been walking on his way to work like every, seemingly never-ending day, when he'd caught–right out of the corner of his eye–one of the shop's more recent paintings quivering. It wasn't until moments later that he realized that someone was changing the picture; switching the previous art piece of a patch of wilted flowers outside a bakery to a picture of a gargantuan building with flashing neon yellow lights and a gaping entryway that threatened o snap closed on the dark blue truck racing towards it. But putting Nezumi's fascination with the impossibly accurate paintings aside, a split second later he couldn't even remember what it had looked like.

That day was when he realized angel's _did _exist.

The celestial being was small and slender, almost like a young child's, with a round almost heart-shaped face still holding fragments of baby fat; a physique that suggested both never-ending timelessness and a life that could be swept away in the blink of an eye if not examined carefully. Luckily, Nezumi was the person to examine him.

The two most peculiar shocking features of the angel was his hair, and his eyes. Locks a stark, snow-_white_ and eyes bright and _crimson_; much like the long snake-like mark running down his cheek and curled around his neck, half-hidden behind his white button-down shirt. The figure looked up in surprise, and when he caught Nezumi staring at him, a shockingly gentle look of expectance passed over his soft features; almost as if the boy had seen the black-haired man before.

Then, for a reason Nezumi didn't understand or explain, the angel raised his free hand–the other still trying to keep the new painting in its place on the canvas–and waved.

Then, for an even stranger reason, Nezumi waved too.

No less than a few seconds later, the boy dropped the picture–obviously by accident of course–but the small action caused the steel-eyed man's senses to flood back to him. He dropped his hand just as the boy was bending down to scoop up the painting in his small, clumsy hands. Giving the older man a small insight of what the little angel was like; awkward and distracted easily, even by a random stranger walking over his path.

What an airhead.

However, Nezumi personally didn't beleve that he was a stranger exactly–he couldn't help feeling as though they had met before in another time, and another world. Maybe they had even met in the place the celestial being had come from.

He continued on his way then, watching the tiny blushing boy out of the corner of his eye as he walked; assured by the fact that it wouldn't be the last time he would see his little angel painter again.


End file.
